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hesesols · 4 years

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The Devil's Advocate

Day 19 and 21 of Ichiruki month 2020

Summary: Demons are a pain in the neck. Exhibit A: The pint-sized she-demon Ichigo’s stuck with until further notice.

Rating: T

FF/ao3

His mouth is bone dry.

Summer heat renders the humidity inside the tiny studio apartment stifling. Heat and sweat cling onto him like a second skin and the stupid electric fan does nothing to ease it.

It's barely three in the morning when he trudges over to his fridge and parks himself in front of the open doors. The blast of cold air hits his heated body nicely. He almost moans.

Instinctively, he grabs the bottle of orange juice from the side and takes a swig from it- only… it's empty?

He growls, "Rukia, what did we say about leaving the empty OJ in the fridge?"

The culprit spares him a lazy smirk from her end of the couch, violet cat-eyes gleaming from the faint glow of the TV. She tilts her head just so as she sticks her tongue out at him.

"Oops!"

Ichigo wearily sighs and slams the door shut, mumbling something about free-loading she-demons. His life is hardly picture perfect to begin with anyway with his job at the Metropolitan Police as a homicide detective. Work hours are long, and his mornings usually start off with unsolicited gruesome crime scene photos and a diluted concoction of coffee-water that is nowhere nearly as strong as he needs it to be.

Since Rukia moved in though, things seem to have gone from bad to worse.

His neighbours think she's his live-in girlfriend- sweet, albeit a little strange at times. Ichigo snorts. They don't know half of it.

The midget isn't even human.

Underneath a heavy layer of glamour, are two spiral-shaped horns- the colour of it blending near seamless with her nest of glossy black hair and of course, a very noticeable fork-tipped tail, flicking from side to side as she giggles at his obvious annoyance at the OJ-less situation.

Filling his cup with lukewarm tap water instead, he trudges over and nudges at her to move. Wordlessly settling next to her, he then proceeds to ignore her indignant yelp as he splays his long legs on the couch, taking up much of her space.

She huffs and glares at him, which earns her a careless roll of his eyes.

"What are you watching?"

Squinting slightly from the brightness, he scoffs as he realizes that she's watching a Spanish telenovela. Though watching may be an understatement in this case, Rukia is obsessed with them to the point where she becomes a little too invested in the torrid love affairs of the fictional characters on screen. By virtue of her otherworldly origins, she understands every language known to man and speaks in tongues; Ichigo doesn't and thinks it's a feat that he catches the names of the characters in passing.

He grabs the remote control, surprised when she viciously slaps his hand away and hisses, "Change the channel and I guarantee you won't live long enough to see the next dawn."

"I'd like to see you try."

Ichigo snorts and does it anyway. It's hard to take her seriously even with the whole glowing eyes business when she is so tiny that she barely comes to his shoulder.

As a demon, Rukia is surprisingly low maintenance- the most outrageous of her demands since she has gotten herself suspended in limbo in their plane of existence was for him to take her to a bunny café. That being said, she does however take her soaps and TV shows very seriously which explains her aggressiveness as she launches herself at him, her touch burning hot on naked skin as she grapples for the device.

"Give it back!"

Ichigo stretches, holding it in one hand just shy of her reach, taunting her.

"Why don't you make me, midget?"

Growling, she takes him up on his challenge. Violet eyes ablaze as she clambers over him on all four, chewing at her lower lip from the effort. It shouldn't even be possible Ichigo thinks, for demons to be this cute- ahem-fixated with earthly distractions but the press of her lithe body feels warm against him, deluding him into thinking for a second, that Rukia isn't some supernatural being from the nether realms powerful enough to send him flying with a snap of her fingers.

Sometimes, he feels she almost forgets about her inhuman advantages- on purpose. The puff of warm exhale from her makes his hair stand, the sight of her face so close to his jerks his thoughts away from his nonsensical musings. Her shirt hikes up and the collar that is way too loose on her easily falls off her shoulder, showing skin.

He bites the inside of his cheek. She needs to stop prancing around in his shirts.

She has her own clothes to wear. He bought her a full array of sundresses, pants, shirts and skirts. Ichigo thinks it's compulsion that makes her raid his closet and steal his clothes. It wouldn't have been quite so ridiculous if she wasn't so petite, making his worn-in T-shirts look more like dresses with the hem cut conspicuously shorter than normal on her thighs.

Ichigo looks away and takes a quick gulp of water. The heat is doing things to him.

He's not checking her out.

He swears. Honest to God.

He's not suicidal. He wouldn't put it above Rukia to claw his eyes out or alternatively damn him to the deepest pits of purgatories if she found out about him sneaking glances at her.

"Here!"

Ichigo throws the remote back at her, standing up abruptly without sparing her another glance. His skin feels warm- much warmer than it has any business of being under a demon's touch and his mouth dry. No touch of water will ever begin to quench this thirst and tame his racing heart but he is human enough to still try to run from the implications.

It's too hot to think. He grabs his keys and wallet.

"I'm heading out."

Rukia's voice rings up from the couch- cool, unaffected as always. Ichigo hates her a little for it, almost.

"This time of the day? Where are you going?"

"To get some OJ from the corner shop since someone finished it and couldn't even be bothered enough to replace it."

Her grin is impish, not a shred of remorse from her as she sighs and kicks back, reclaiming her sovereignty over the couch.

"Oh, could you grab some ice-cream while you're at it? I think we're all out too."

He grimaces, halts his process of shrugging on a shirt to yell back, "They're full of sugary crap. Too much of it and you're going to rot your teeth!"

Just before he sets foot outside though, he grumbles.

"What flavour do you want?"

The grin she flashes at him is annoying and indolent with her spread out on the couch, like a cat in the sun, pleased with her unchallenged access to her favourite soap and him running errands on her behalf.

The satisfaction practically purrs from her as she smirks and says, "Strawberries and cream."

His cheeks burn and he tells himself that he's too nice for his own good, staunchly refusing to even consider the possibility that she's got him wrapped around her pretty little fingers.

The streets of his neighbourhood are mostly deserted in the wee hours before dawn and the scarcity of people makes the air somewhat bearable despite the heat. He walks home in the dark, his groceries in a plastic bag hanging limply by his side.

Ichigo sighs. It's a horrible thing to be distracted by thoughts and downright disgraceful that it has taken him this long to realize that he's being followed.

He turns the next corner sharply and as expected, the heavy footsteps, the crunch against the gravel of the pavement follows. He hides behind the decrepit wall, bidding his time until the sound creeps close enough for him to make out the shadow of a hunkering man.

Now!

He leaps out from the shadow, swinging the heavily-laden bag like a weapon at his attacker.

The stranger decked from head to toe in black falters from the surprise attack. He is forced to take another step back as the weight hits him dead centre- quickly followed by a punch from Ichigo, letting out a pained groan as his world spins.

"Who sent y- the fuck!—"

The hood of his attacker slips off and Ichigo is more than a little shocked by the ghastly appearance of the creature underneath it. Whatever this thing is- it's not human. Yellow teeth- drool dripping from the corners of the gaping mouth and sunken cheeks make up the most sinister-looking skull-face he has ever seen. The thing's unfocused milky white eyes sharpened at him.

The creature throws itself at him, snarling with claws drawn out and aimed at his jugular.

Forced on the defensive, Ichigo doesn't hesitate. Instincts and years of experience have him throwing the bag of grocery at the ghoul as a distraction to buy him time. He takes off down the street in the opposite direction without looking back.

The bag rips, predictably; the contents of it spilling into the empty streets but it barely slows the creature down.

Outrunning him by a good minute, the creature lunges at him from his blind spot which he clumsily dodges. His back meets the wall of the alleyway, chipping off old paint and the uneven edges bite into his skin through his flimsy cotton shirt, drawing blood. He hisses in pain but there's barely even time to register it as the ghoul lunges again.

The strong jaw of the creature crushes the pieces of garbage Ichigo throws at it, rendering them into splinters. Its movements and attacks unrelenting and aimed to kill.

Weaponless as opposed to the creature's deadly bite and claws, Ichigo has neither the speed nor the agility to fully dodge the frenzied attacks. The odds are stacked against him and with every swipe and snarl; Ichigo feels his chances of survival dwindling.

He is crawling backwards on all four, back against the wall when his hand closes on a steel bar. He thanks the stars and whatever higher power there may be but knows that he is not out of the woods yet.

Grim determination sets in as his eyes harden.

He only gets one chance- one chance to get this right or he's dead and done for.

The ghoul rears up for its attack and Ichigo readies himself.

Mid-launch, the steel bar spears through the creature's twisted body. It gives a strangled cry, black blood oozing and dripping onto the pavement, over Ichigo's battered and bruised body. But Ichigo refuses to let go. He pushes it in deeper until he can hear the snap of muscles and soft tissues, and sees the metal protruding from the other side of the dead monster.

The ghoul flops over dead. Its weight settles on top of Ichigo and he eagerly hoists it off, eager to put some distance between them. The damn thing smells worse than the open sewage and rotten corpses.

Above him, there is an ominous roll of thunder and flashes of lightning that streak through the dark skies. Ichigo picks himself up wearily. He has no intention of being caught in the downpour.

Sharp pain shoots from his side as he hobbles. His hand comes up red and in disbelief, his eyes flit to the wound on his side, cut deep and the shred of cotton or what remains of his tattered shirt is soaked in the bloom of scarlet. The drip—drop of blood follows the pull of gravity, pattering onto the hot pavement.

He's been stabbed, he realizes belatedly and curses, that was his favourite shirt too.

Adrenaline fades and his legs give way from the blood loss.

A drop of something cool slides down his cheek before the torrent of rain follows, drenching him as he lays helpless on the deserted street, too weak to even yell for help.

He heaves a shaky breath, trying to make himself comfortable. The ache of the pain somehow dulling as the rain blurs his vision.

Cliché but he swears he sees his life flashing before him. And at the forefront of his strange musings and equally bizarre life cut short before his time, he remembers his first meeting with Rukia.

There's nothing quite like satanic cults and human sacrifices to brighten up the prospects of the day.

Ichigo grimaced, looking at the crime scene photos with a deep frown as he sipped at his coffee. He should have never taken up Ishida on his offer.

This case had all the makings of a ritual killing. Missing child, dead parent cut open with palms splayed, gruesome markings etched- he scowled; it reminded him too much of his own loss.

A tip-off from Anonymous led him to an abandoned warehouse not too far away from the Docks, the scene of the first murder.

"Don't do anything stupid," Ishida had cautioned him against it, "It's just another prank call. I sent a team out to canvas that area hours ago. There's nothing in that warehouse."

But Ichigo wasn't convinced. Gut instincts screamed at him to take a closer look at it but he also wasn't about to pick a fight when they should be focusing the bulk of their resources and time into finding the missing girl. The first 48 hours are crucial.

He's tough and packing. That made the second part of his decision a no-brainer as he slinked in past the locked gates and rusted metal fences— alone.

What he found inside the warehouse though was enough to make him balk.

"Nothing to report, my ass," he mumbled, carefully avoiding the pile of animal bones strewn along the doorway. He thought he heard the scurrying of rats and other critters as he made his way in deeper, unable to shake off the feeling of being watched.

There's something else in here. He could feel it in his bones.

He drew his weapon as he wandered into a room with what seemed to be a laid altar with offerings of dead flowers and questionable animal remains.

Heavy clouds of sulphur and incense filled the air, making his eyes water. In the centre of the room, was a circle, curious glyphs and runes drawn in red that he strongly suspected to be blood, candles with half-burnt ends flickering.

There's a pull at him towards the circle. He didn't resist it. The minute he crossed the threshold though, the candles were snuffed out and a blinding white light enveloped him. A strange ringing echoed through the room.

When his vision cleared, there was a girl with two horns and a tail standing in front of him, violet eyes searing into his as she bowed somewhat mockingly.

"Took you long enough. I was beginning to think that I'll waste away here for another week before someone shows up."

He stared, slack-jawed at her nudity or rather her lack of shame at her own state of undress.

She was unimpressed. Tapping her foot impatiently, she looked at him and said, "Well don't just stand there and gape. State the terms of your contract and we'll see if something can be arranged."

"Ichigo!"

The memory fades. The same pair of violet eyes are now boring deep into his.

"Rukia," he breathes. Talking is hard but he tries anyway. If it's to be his dying words, let them at least have meaning. Rukia- her existence and the events leading to her presence in his life are the only things that have ever made sense in a world said to have been created by an all-loving God and yet so full of injustice and hate.

"Stop talking! Damn it!"

He thinks she's smarter than that. He's lost too much blood now to ever come back whole. He is beyond saving at this point.

There's a light somewhere guiding him on. Maybe he'll see his mom after this; will she be proud of him- of what he's done with his life?

"I won't let you die."

There's a strange shimmering in the air. The shaft of light shining down on him is suddenly blotted out and he is falling-

Falling-

He slams back into his body and chokes.

The pain is a hundred times sharper and a million times more jarring than he remembers. Brown eyes snap open just in time to see Rukia's kneeling body enshrouded in a silver ashy glow of light; her hand plunged deep into his chest.

The rain plasters her hair to her face; her eyes an unholy combination of black sclera and violet irises. She growls from the effort as her fingers tirelessly trace rune after rune across his broken body. The burnished ring of gold on his chest glows and hums with each and every character added.

Ichigo can only watch on in stunned silence as a cascade of something iridescent is siphoned from her and pulled into him. He thinks he hears singing, sweeter than the song of a nightingale and so beautiful that he thinks he just might cry from it.

She grits her teeth.

"Do you trust me?"

He nods.

She presses her lips to his. He surges forward to meet her and tastes the saltiness of her tears, mingled with that of the rain. There's a cut on her lip from where she had been biting too hard and the taste of it- like honey, decadent and syrupy, lingers on his palate.

The pain- or rather the absence of it grows and he feels something being anchored into place.

His heart.

Her heart.

There's something between them that is beyond words and whatever she's done, Ichigo knows it's life-changing for the both of them. He knows somehow, staring at the identical marks of a glowing glyph on the back of their palm.

They're bonded.

But even the very word seems inadequate to express this shimmer between them. There's a sliver of her- something inhuman— nay, a dark voice whispers, better than human— within him and it makes the world incomprehensibly sharper in his eyes, the taste of the summer air sweet on his tongue and the warmth of her skin so achingly perfect against his own as he holds her.

Pink flesh peeks through his tattered shirt. He is once again healed, whole, rendered into something new in her presence.

"So," he licks his dry lips, "did Hector ever managed to tell Maria that he loves her?"

"You idiot!"

She is shaking her head, calling him names for his recklessness. At length, she stops, and heaving a sigh of deep relief, grins at him, canines showing.

"Welcome back to the world of living, Master."

FF/ao3

The 'I-accidentally-summoned-a-cute-demon-and-now-I-think-I'm-in-too-deep-to-let-her-go' AU

Also detective! Ichigo who solves crime with some help from the occult world- courtesy of his soulmate/familiar/contract partner demon! Rukia.

As always, review, like, reblog, comment or send me an ask to share random thoughts.

#ichiruki #ichirukimonth #irmonth2020 #Day 19: all my demons have your smile #day 21: supernatural #supernatural AU #fanfic #mine #the devil's advocate

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jooneggs · 4 years

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Rain, Forever | Namjoon ☁

⤑ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader ⤑ SUMMARY: Since the lack of rain and the coming of Winter, Namjoon hadn’t been the same. He didn’t seem to smile much and his grin never quite met his eyes. He’d lost passion for everything he once loved. Well..everything but art. Specifically that one black and white watercolour painting in the Seoul Art Gallery that resembles a lonely figure standing in the rain.. ⤑ Genre/AU: Fluff + Angst / non!idol Joon + alt!universe Joon ⤑ Warnings: The main component of this story mentions depression and suicidal ideation*, swearing, burglary, suffocation and a sprinkle of magic ⤑ Word count: 7.4k

⤑ Rating: +14

*This story, in no way, attempts to romanticize or idolize mental health issues. I can only say it comes from a personal perspective which is somewhat unique and subjective to every individual.

A/N: A song that touches the crest of my soul and speaks to so many others. I hope this helps, heals and warms many people who, like myself, miss the rain.

☁

“I don’t know whether I should take you seriously or not..”

“C’mon it’ll be fun!”

“You’d better not make me regret this, Kim Namjoon.”

“As long as you trust me, it’ll be fine.”

It was October of last year and you and Namjoon had found yourselves in Haneul Park.

Standing under the shelter of a bleak cafe, he had been tugging at your sleeve, urging you to run out into the open with him. But you hadn’t the slightest clue why you’d want to be anywhere else but under the shelter. It was cold enough in the cafe, but outside it was completely meek. It had been windy yet pleasant just an hour ago, but now the wind was just pelting rain drop after rain drop at the windows.

In a light cardigan and an impractical corduroy skirt, you dreaded the prospect of having to run through the rain to get to your car. You’d taken shelter, narrowly avoiding the rain, and now you’d practically holed yourself up in the cafe after downing two mugs of tea and a triple chocolate cookie. Namjoon, however, was quite the opposite. For the past thirty minutes, his eyes had been glued to the window. Despite his lack of warm-clothes, he seemed more desperate than ever to get outside. While you had finished your cup of tea in just over ten minutes, he’d simply downed his, pouty cheeks sloshing with liquid before swallowing the beverage in one ecstatic gulp.

Now he was standing right by the window to which you’d hesitantly joined him. The rain fell harder that day than it ever had before. Namjoon absolutely loved it. You never quite understood his thinking, but he’d always be willing to explain it to you. He’d said tt was the way the trees moved to the sound, the way the clouds gathered, watched, hovered over you, better than any shelter. It was the way the grass leaned, succumbing to its force, the way the pavement shimmered in its grasp. It was the way it felt to be amongst it all, like an unknown spectator, just a pair of eyes. It satisfied more than any drug could, oxytocin soaking through your pores, melding flesh and bone like a soldering iron.

You wished you could feel just as excited about all these small droplets of h20; you were desperate to make sense of it. Especially when it came to Namjoon.

“Well..I do want to understand.” You spoke, leaning into his pull. At that he only tugged your sleeve further.

“C’mon then, Dew-Drop!”

He walked you toward the door with an overwhelming sense of eagerness. You thought yourself to be mad, but still your hand remained in his.

“So we’re running to the car?”

“Running, walking, admiring the view; whatever you want to call it.” He said, pulling the door open, taking you with him.

“Ah!” You yelped as the first draft of rain lashed out on you “I’d much prefer to just run Joon.”

He couldn’t hear you though, almost dancing ahead. Namjoon was fervent in the rain; he always had been. You remembered meeting him like that, when you used to teach and he came in as a motivational speaker to talk about his career as a musician.

After his speech, you’d been given the duty of cleaning the chairs in the school hall. Eager to finish, you began to stick them out in stacks in the courtyard, and that was when you saw him, far off in the distance, leaning against the rails of the basketball court, rain pouring down his face.

Like the feeling you felt looking at him now, you were magnetized, curious.

“It’s fucking freezing!” You began, clenching at your sides, hopping on the spot “Can we run now?”

“You, miss l/n, are no fun.” He chimed.

“And you’re a polar bear!”

“An endearing term, but i find my pace akin to a cheetah.” He joked “Now chase me!”

Before you could blink, he had bolted across the grass, down towards the car park.

Now, you not only had to fight the rain, but focus on keeping up with your long-legged boyfriend.

They say girls are good at multi-tasking - and they are - they just struggle with things like this because it involves the tedious process of thinking and being sensory-aware all the time; something which lengthy boys like Namjoon don’t take into account.

“A fucking polar bear isn’t this fast!″ You puffed, circling a bed of drooping flowers to further keep up with him,

As the rain pelted heavier, giddiness overcame you. You couldn’t help but laugh, thinking of yourself (merely a few years ago) watching this man, as a primary school teacher, from the playground - almost untouchable, unreal - now encouraging you to chase him, soaking wet, through the rain like lovestruck youth.

“Catch me if you can.” He laughed.

☁

That was three months ago..

Today was March 13th. 2020.

Friday the 13th...

The balcony of your third floor apartment was glowing that day. As you sat on its cobblestone base, dusting your plant pots, you felt the sun cast warm rays on your neck.

Friday the 13th, that one day that came up so seldom, never seemed to hold any negative connotations for you. Every day you felt lucky: to have a quaint little flat, thriving plants, an endless supply of herbal tea at your feet, and of course Namjoon.

Right now you were tending to his favorite small bonsai, gently seated between two lucky bamboo plant pots, shaded by a leafy green hanging plant. You polished its black base, sprayed some water on its soil stones and gently trimmed any stray stalks growing from its arms. Namjoon had called him ‘peet’, an affectionate name that often made you forget that this plant was more an inanimate object than a human body with full-functioning organs. You were often reminded of this when he’d catch you in lengthy conversations, strewn across the balcony floor at night, bonsai leaves tickling your cheek as you tried to lean back further to watch the stars. But these plants were a huge healing tool for you; something that kept you occupied, just as well nourished as them, and excited to see how they’d blossom each day.

Finishing off by cutting the last wandering stalk, you gently got to your feet and headed for the kitchen. Only 11am, you’d had your breakfast but felt slightly parched for a drink. Fortunately enough, when the clock struck 11.10 every day, you’d find yourself coincidentally hunched over a mug of steaming green tea; you knew there was no coincidence, just the pure, unrelenting fact that you loved the warm, floral taste it brought you. It gave you just the right amount of energy each day, and it was always a wonder to watch Namjoon puff his cheeks like a hamsters as he’d swallow a cup whole in one go.

You’d left him asleep this morning, waking at 9am to grab some groceries and sort yourself out. You hadn’t disturbed him since, knowing he was a heavy sleeper and knowing he really needed some rest since working the past few weeks. Night after night he’d been slaving in front of a laptop, attempting to draft and file possible lyrics for his upcoming album. It wasn’t helping that his producer had him on a leash and under a constricting time limit. What could you do but give him the time and space he needed to get things done.

Sealing the kettle and the tea bags, you lifted Namjoon’s mug and carried it over to your bedroom. Approaching the door, you listened carefully for the sound of snoring, aware that waking Namjoon wouldn’t do any good for the level of guilt you felt entering the room anyway.

When all you heard was silence, you decided to nudge the door open and slip through into a darker room.

“Joon, I've made some tea for you.” You approached the bed and placed his mug on the bedside table, anchoring it away from him so he wouldn’t hit it off with his elbow when turning; he was clumsy like that. You watched as he shuffled in response to your entrance, the caramel of his skin sliding against the sheets as he adjusted his neck to gently turn to you

“Mmh Morning.” He yawned, his eyes forming crescent moons as they squeezed shut before opening to clear the haze from his vision. He was a beautiful little shape of a human, shrouded in cosy bedding as he watched you in the dim light.

“You coming out today Joon? I’ve got some exciting things up my sleeve.”

“I can’t..I'm sorry.” He replied, a certain lifelessness in his tone.

“Are you sure? I can make us some cake and we can go to some park. It’ll be nice.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Oh, okay..”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine!” You whispered, bringing your palm to his cheek, feeling its heat coarse through your fingers. “We’ll try another day. Don’t feel bad about it at all. Have a nice rest Joon.”

With that, you slowly turned from him and made your way back out into the living space. You let a sigh wash over you and attempted to rejoice in the fact that at least you had a warm mug of tea ready for you. Swigging it down, you sat in silence, watching the outdoors from the distant balcony window. It was still just as bright outside, much brighter than the bedroom, clouded by dark curtains. You felt sad for Joon, powerless even. How badly you missed even the simple things like swigging tea with him. How long had it been since you’d done that?..

Too Long.

☁

The rest of the day painted itself in a slow and monotonous fashion. It wasn’t unbearable - you got things done - but it all seemed watered into the same actions, the same meaning, the same routine.

It started with finishing your tea, slower than you had intended. Lost in monotonous thought, before you knew it, it had gone cold so you had ended up pouring the remaining portion down the sink. You then went on to finish the laundry, have lunch, check on your beloved plants, read a book, watch TV, yawn and sigh a countless number of times, and take a quick nap.

Before you knew it, the room had darkened and the sky had taken on a delicious yellow tone. Before you knew it, the whole day had almost passed.

You didn’t want to lie to yourself, this is the way the days had gone for the past few weeks. It was just you, the sun, a cup of tea and the rest of the world. Namjoon, every day, had been stuck in the bedroom, occasionally popping out each evening to say hello. Now that was something you had a problem with confronting. You felt it was appropriate for him to get some rest, especially after the few weeks he’d spent finishing up his work. But it had reached a turning point now. One which you didn’t know how to address.

You weren’t too happy about it, but Namjoon was clearly broken. Were you scared to face the extent of his unhappiness? You never wanted to see the one you loved so much feel so hollow. At least that’s how you assumed he felt. You’d felt a similiar emotion before, but never to the extent Namjoon was experiencing. How badly you just wanted to rip the shreds of dread from him like a stuffed toy, or hug him to death and fill him full of love, stitching him back up to like he’d been before.

What could it be that made him feel like this? Perhaps it was nothing at all, just a fragrant aroma of unease that settled upon him - something he couldn’t shake off. When would you build up the courage to ask him? Talking to someone might free him from his bonds, but you couldn’t force him, you just couldn’t.

He had to be the one to make that choice.

Shifting on the sofa and taking a rather taxing stretch, you moved from your napping position and onto your feet. You stepped out onto the balcony, greeted by a golden radiant light, seating yourself on the heated stone floor, your feet nudging blooming plant pots.

You watched through the rustic balcony bars as the air grew wispy and chill around you, a harsh brick wall supporting the stability of your back. The clouds were starting to fade into the distance as stars pushed forth through the air. Was it time for another cup of tea yet? Probably. You felt spurred to go and get one.

“Morning.”

“N-namjoon.” You turned in surprise from the gruff voice to be met with his tall figure slouched against the door frame. “Evening, sleepy-head.”

He yawned in response, ruffling that luscious hair of his that now seemed so tangled through his fingers.

“Come sit down.”

Shuffling, he came to a seated position, one knee bobbing against yours, the other scraping the soil surface of his bonsai. Another yawn again, and his knee was now fully perched on your thigh, his back hunched over, shoulder nudging yours. You watched him as he shook out his tawny hair and took in his features in the setting sun.

“What’s up?” You smiled, your hand resting on his leg.

“Wanted to see you, dewdrop.”

“If you aren’t the biggest charmer.” You grinned in response “I’ve been missing you all day.”

“Yeah..i know.” He whispered.

“Then what’s up? I’m always here for you Joon.”

He sighed, fingers now raking into his scalp. Moon pools, darkened and tenebrous sat under his eyes, his thick lips chapped and his face a starker cream against the fading light. You turned to him, watching more closely, waiting for him to open up, praying that he would just open up.

“If you’re not ready that’s fine, i don’t -”

“No, no..I need to.” He shuffled nervously “I know things haven’t been the same since a few weeks ago. I’ve been pouring all my energy into my work and now I've been pouring it all into sleep and it feels like I've finally used up all my resources - like i’m at a dead end for solace, for what to do.”

“It started a few weeks ago. Things were fine, then all of a sudden, it stopped raining. It was probably just one of those years where the weather just wanted to let up and stay sunny, but for me, it felt like the first. It really did feel like the first time it hadn’t rained. I didn’t know what to do. I was at a loss. All my fondest memories, all my comfort and all my shelter came from the rain - it was a thing I could not deny, and I'm still desperate to get it back.”

“I just..I wish it rains all day. Cuz i’d like someone to cry for me. Cuz then people wouldn’t stare at me. The umbrella would cover the sad face, people would be busy minding themselves. I felt like i just needed to stop, I needed to breathe a little slower because my life and my rap, they’re usually too fast.”

“Yeah..that’s it..”

He let out a strong exhale, letting the air around him encourage the entire earth to fall silent. With that breath, his hand found yours on his thigh, his fingers lacing into your own. A strong thumb pawed across your palm, pressing softly into the flesh, the ultimate grounding tool.

But it wasn’t you needing to be grounded, it really wasn’t. It was him, the friendly giant who had lost all hope and solace to the power of the rain.

“Thank you for telling me. Really thank you.” You squeezed his hand “It’s you i want to protect. If I could hang clouds in the sky and make it rain for you I would..you know that.”

“If only I could find something else to make me just as happy..”

“Hey..” You chirped, a thought springing to your head. “You know i checked on you this morning to see if maybe you wanted to do something? Well..maybe we could go to the Art Museum on the waterfront tomorrow?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“It might help. And maybe we could get a coffee as well and see if we bump into any visiting artists.”

He grinned at you, a sense of adoration and respect filling the lakes of his eyes and the hollows of his dimples. You smiled back, a slow and affectionate grin that you hoped could transcend from your heart, right into his to fix him completely.

“Cool. Well, lets get some dinner on and look forward to a beautiful tomorrow.”

☁

That night, with full stomach’s and a coruscating sunset washed over your bodies, you lay in your bed, arm in arm, the night falling into the next day. You slept on your side, your arms crossed over your chest. Namjoon rested behind you, his stomach against your back, hands set in the violin crests of your waist, his head latched against your neck. Perhaps this was the first time, you thought, in weeks that you’d layn like this. The past few days, you’d been laying in bed alone, or an oceans distance from Joon, leaving him to get the best rest possible without your heat leaching onto him. This felt nice. It felt so much more than natural. He smelt of vanilla, and long nights and restless days. It reminded you of the angel you’d met so long ago.

The only thing you missed was his damp, fresh, rain water scent.

☁

“Catch me if you can.” He laughed.

Running further down the hill of the park, you felt your feet race ahead of you, almost slipping, as you begged yourself to catch up to him. Oaks, maples, alders, zelkovas, and birches all fade into one collective tincture as Namjoon dominated your vision. Despite your distance, his smell, his touch and his colours blocked out all sensory notion and summoning around you. You would not be held by the bounds of nature, he was yours and you were his, and in this race all there was, was blank space and the two of you.

“We’re nearly there!” He yelled again, bringing you from your thoughts.

“I’m -” You huffed. “I’m. So. Close.”

“Ah. So now it is about the race and not the rain. Perhaps you have a newfound love for it?”

In response, you slammed the brakes, watching him as he skipped into the car park, unlocking the doors to your vehicle and climbing in, beckoning you over.

“In your dreams.”

☁

“For this week, to celebrate the Seoul Arts Festival, we are holding a two for one deal for all art lovers. Therefore, your ticket entry to the art museum is only half price! Enjoy your visit.”

The gallery was lit with stars this afternoon. In awe, you walked through the reception and into the main hall to peer at the strings of golden paper in the shapes of stars decorating the ceiling and the walls. Clearly, this week was a week to be celebrated in the arts community.

You hoped Namjoon felt as excited as you to spend this time with him and on such a special day. You watched him, a small smile poking at his cheeks, not giving away whether he was displeased or not. You took the nervous drum of his knee to be the latter.

You always spent a lot of time in each room when you were with Joon. In love with his adoration for exhibitions, each time you joined him, you simply stuck to his side, viewing every single detail of every single painting.

At first, you felt the visits to be somewhat taxing - much preferring living, breathing art such as himself. Eventually, however, you succumbed to his ways - finally realizing that all exhibits were living things with their own lives and stories behind all their individual brush strokes. Like most things, it was him who taught you that, with his silent yet ethereal way of just being and learning and loving.

“Okay..wow, so this is the central room for this real highlight exhibits.” You breathed, Namjoon echoed your awe with a slow nod.

Now this was a room you felt you could really spend hours in. From Eunho, to Hye-Sok, to Eungro, to Jiho, you span around in a flurry of colour as you attempted to absorb the true joy of being amongst all this art at once. You knew Joon felt it too, immediately joining him by the first exhibit to gape at the thatched lines and geometry sitting on the canvas before him. You wondered how long he’d felt this way about the things before him: from paintings, to people, to the rain itself. Had he always been so sensitive and in-tune with his environment? Did he always care so much concerning the life buzzing around him?

After crowding around a few of the exhibits, you decided to head to the bathroom and grab a drink for the two of you. Almost ten minutes in, you’d realized you would probably need a drink to support your long and meticulous visit. Now was the perfect time to head off and grab one.

“Joon, I'm going to grab us a coffee, okay? Don’t go too far.”

“You know i won’t.” He chuckled “This room is way too fascinating.”

Almost fifteen minutes later, and a large queue for the cafe, you hurried back to the central room with two piping cups of pure vanilla fuel. Walking through the doorway, you searched for him in the crowd, but to no avail. You’d told him to stay put, and you were convinced he would do so, but now he’d ran off, almost as if your exit was the perfect opportunity to get away from everything that bound him. It was the perfect inconvenience.

Walking through the room, you decided to take the door to the next section of the exhibit and see if he was there. Entering into a more low lit space, you squinted your eyes, looking for him in every corner of the room. After a short amount of time, you came across his figure, hunched by an exhibit in the far left hand corner.

Positioned diagonally, you could see the features of his face in pure scrutiny. His eyes, wincing, paced back and forth across the painting, his teeth sandwiched between his lip, chewed at it gently.

You’d watched him before like this, staring at paintings, watching life go by on the apartment balcony, tending to his plants, but it had never quite been like this. You stood there for (what?) ten to fifteen minutes, simply wondering when he would stop staring at the canvas..if he would move on. Was he waiting for you to join him? Was the painting simply that jaw-dropping?

“Joon..”

He turned in surprise, immediately standing straight. You smiled at his action, and approached him to look at the painting further. From a distance, in the dim light of the room, the painting was a monochromatic smudge with the tall figure of Namjoon shading its central half. Now, up close, it looked much different.

A figure in a long white trench coat and cap stood in its centre. Beneath him, a flowing stream of black ink submerged the better half of his shoes, meandering forward through the painting and toward a large black hole hanging in the sky ahead. Black arcs of rain shot through the surrounding sky like hasten sparks, falling into the reflection of the figure wavering below in the light of the tenebrous stream. The painting, as a whole, had been crafted in monochromatic watercolour, its brush strokes melting down the canvas like tears to paper. It was a sad yet inspiring vision, you thought.

“It’s beautiful.” He answered, a tear pooling down his cheek.

☁

That night you lay awake for a while.

A long while.

At 9pm, you turned to your side, and slipped out of your bed to sit on the balcony. The weather was tinged with cold, but you brought a blanket to shawl across your shoulders and drape under your naked toes.

You’d tried getting to sleep that night around 8pm. Joon had huddled against the corner of the sofa before bed and downed a mug of green tea, before watching you finish yours, lacing your hand with his and heading for dream-land.

But as soon as you hit those warm, delicious covers, you knew there was something much more pressing calling your name.

Ever since leaving the museum that afternoon, you couldn’t draw your mind from that watercolour painting. Like an obnoxious poster of propaganda, or an inviting store-front display, the picture sat in your mind, a prized possession, and mocked you your entire journey home. You thought about Joon’s face viewing the canvas, the time he spent simply looking at it and the silence and serenity that followed him afterward.

He wanted the rain, he yearned for it, he called for it ever since its disappearance. You only realized this last night, once he opened up to you, but it had made sense. The long showers he took when you were distracted at the grocers and would come home to him singing away to the sound of the running water in the bathroom. The way you would sometimes wake just as he was heading to sleep and watch him kiss the sky goodnight with a certain desperation for the rain to come. Even the long, delicious sips he took of green tea, feeling the liquid wash down his throat and cleanse him of his doubt. It all made sense.

He was waiting for the rain to answer him and it was that singular painting that seemed to pick up his call.

It was that realization, again, on the foot of your balcony at 9pm at night that made you stoop through the house, throw on your shoes and run back to the museum to bring home that painting.

Racing down cobblestone streets and narrow lanes, you found yourself driving all the way back to the museum with only yourself and the headlights of the car to guide you.

All your life, you’d learnt better from the mistakes you’d made and soon realized it was best to follow a calling and take an opportunity when it came to you. Even if it ended up failing. This particular calling was stronger than ever, a migraine in your head, an instinct that screamed that there was more to this painting than what meets the eye. You knew it would help Namjoon.

On special events, the museum closed at the ripe hour of 10pm: in just fifteen minutes time. What on earth were you doing? You didn’t know. You would enter the museum, visit the catalyst that stuck itself in your mind and hopefully the answer would come to you.

Jumping out from the car, you ran toward the entrance, bursting through the doors like some crazed artist, desperate for information.

A man halted you just as you were headed through to the main hall, his gentle touch on your shoulder.

“Ma’am, this gallery is closing in ten minutes time.”

“I-i understand. I just need to take a look at one of your exhibits.”

He nodded, an uncertain look crossing his features “Of course..go ahead.”

And with that notice, you sped walk to the dim lit room without a single thought but of the canvas in your head.

“Good evening, this gallery will be closing in five minutes time. Can all remaining visitors please make their way to the exit on the lower floor. Thank you for visiting.”

With the echo of the final closing announcement following you into the dark exhibit room, you had to make a decision. A dangerous decision.

With no rational thought, plan or hope in mind, you would decide to stay at the museum past its closing time. Searching the room, you peered for somewhere to hide. Unfortunately, galleries never really delivered in this particular apartment, often baring clean white walls and flat floorboards. In your case, frantically scouring the room, you had found an exhibit sitting on top of a white box with a possible way to unfold itself and hide you in it. With urgency, you got to your knees and tugged at the side of one of the corners, digging your nails in, in an attempt to open up one of the sides and slide inside.

And just as if it really was your calling, one of the sides slid open - albeit with a tremendous screeching sound against the floor - but it still very much opened. With that, you were asking no questions, simply bending yourself into a rectangular shape and sliding back into the box, closing the side behind you.

Now to wait.

For a few minutes, you sat in silence, wincing at a cramp in your ankle. Suddenly, you were hearing footsteps and jangling keys announcing themselves in the room. With a held breath, and extreme concentration, you sat rock solid as the steps circled, stopping occasionally to scent out a visitor, and continuing before finally click-clacking goodbye. If there was any time you thought you would be in need of an oxygen tank (surprisingly not in 50 years time) it was now. You were never one to break the rules or to find yourself being ridiculously spontaneous, so this was really a first. You felt on edge, yet devious and buzzing with an electric pulse of energy. It really was time for you to try something new, and for Joon to finally get his dose of happiness.

In a succession of fox-like footsteps, you peeled yourself from the box and made your way over to the painting. You thought, standing still, that the answer of what to do would just come to you.

Certainly nothing had happened straight away, but you were definitely taken aback by the painting in this light. With only the back-up lighting on, a shadow was cast on the canvas before you, washing the monochromatic tone over in a blue haze. Things looked even sadder from this angle, but ever more fascinating. Almost unconsciously, you leaned forward and traced the painting with your finger, letting your palm slide flat against the cold canvas. So melancholy and so mysterious, the longer you stared, the more you fell. Before you could even comprehend your actions, you were again applying another hand to the canvas, feeling its ridges and bends. Slowly, you came closer to it, pushing forward past the small rope barrier to reach nearer in its gaze.

Black, white, grey, it all melded into one in a romantic and tragic spiral of colour. Your eyes fell onto its detail, its strokes, its edges, and soon you couldn’t even tell what you were looking at anymore - simply a puddle of water absorbing your interest, absorbing all consciousness.

☁

“Hello”

“Hello..”

“Are you okay?”

In a buttery, and gooey, and delicious state of silence a voice filled your ears. Slowly you felt your touch, your scent, your taste and everything return to you. You were a warm body on a cold floor, palms clawing roughly at its spongy surface. You were a clouded head, lost in direction, coming to your senses with the figure above you.

Eyes squinting and pleading to open, you heard his voice again. It rang a deep, husky, baritone chill through your spine and reminded you of someone oh so familiar. As you squeezed your eyes open again, everything came into view.

The figure above you was a tall, looming shadow. Dressed in a long white trench coat and cap, with loose trousers and messy black hair, he stared ominously into your eyes, confusion and worry painting the slight lines smudged across his face.

It only took you a second, but before you knew it, you were free of numbness and doubt, standing to your feet and cradling the shadow in front of you.

It was your Joon.

Well, it was him, but rather a slightly altered version of him. A small wedge of his collective person so to speak. In fact, to put it definitely, it was the figure that stood central in the watercolour painting.

And now you were in the painting itself. Standing with him as if you’d never left the house, as if you hadn’t ever had a care in the world. But you most definitely had; in fact, the biggest question shrouding your brain was how on earth did you end up inside the canvas? Was this a dream?

“I’m sorry.” You whispered into his shoulder.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay Dewdrop.” He replied, leaving you frozen with the familiar nickname. “I missed you.”

“Joon..” You mumbled, a hand lacing itself against his collarbone “Hey..this isn’t some weird calling is it? Or some nightmare that will leave me on my knees in penance?”

“No, no. I know this feels weird and I know this was the last place you expected to be in order to help the one you love..but it is. And you won’t be here forever, don’t worry, I just need to explain things.”

“Okay okay.” You nodded, pulling back from him to fully process the situation.

Viewing him from such a close perspective, and viewing the strange yet ethereal world floating in your peripheral wasn’t even the weirdest thing. The weirdest thing was how quick you had been made to suddenly process this all, as if it were foreshadowed in the flecks of your bloodstream.

Always one for make-believe and skipping class in favor of daydreaming dungeons & dragons, this would seem custom for you. And it was in a sense. Crossing that initial bridge of fear and the unfamiliar, you felt strangely calm in this new world’s clutch.

“Y/n? Are you alright?”

“Sorry.” You pulled yourself from your sudden thoughts. “I was just..i’m just a bit taken aback that’s all.”

“It’s fine, honey. Come here, let’s walk.”

In the still slight state of shock, you took his hand and walked. Before, the world feeling silent, you could now hear rain. Long flecks of it smashing against the ground like fireworks bouncing beyond the stratosphere. In some strange way - like everything that had happened to you this evening - you felt calm.

In the weeks it hadn’t rained, you forgot what it had felt like to hold Joon’s hand, to hug him, to really feel him near you. In the early hours of morning, you had missed his warmth, his feathery kisses, his pleasure that was true sin of the flesh. Feeling him here, being next to him now, you had a hope that his more unfortunate, lonesome counterpart would soon be reunited with his true-self again.

“It was a few weeks ago, when the rain halted all action. When the skies fell to rest. A part of me left and found itself here, a strange deity of happiness, an outlier in a world of strangers.”

Looking around, you felt his words. To your left, and to your right stood figures masked with umbrellas, floating in the inaudible wind. Some figures had their umbrellas angled so you could see their faces. Strange features marked the upper half of their torso: hollowed cheeks with eyes sitting in the banks of their flesh, botanical hair, melding into faces, blossoming into sharper spikes. Some figures were full of expression and stories, others were simply black smudges, scribbles atop slouched shoulders moving with the current.

“When it rains, I get a little feeling that I do have a friend. Keeps knocking on my windows; asks me if I'm doing well. And I know that when Namjoon’s at home, writing his music, waiting, he will answer: ‘I’m still a hostage of life. I don’t live because i can’t die, but i’m chained to something.’” Joon responds, talking about the physical side of himself, the man you’ve left sleeping at home, dreaming of the rain. You sense a sadness in his tone, a longing to be reunited with his other half. To make him whole again.

“What can i do? Please tell me?”

“We need to get out of here; but i can’t do it without your help. You need to help pull me out through the other side, to set me free, to help me reach him.”

You take a fresh gulp, anticipating instructions, waiting for an order of where to go, something to help you complete your task. But nothing.

“Where do i take you?”

“Through..through that black hole over there.”

With an unsteady, ghostly white watercolour finger, he points ahead of himself, toward a tenebrous pool of ink, hanging in the sky. Walking with hope, an inkling of dread at your side, you tug further on his hand to approach the crevice, the tear in the seams.

Approaching nearer, you feel your feet start to become submerged in a tar-like substance. Upon looking down, you notice that your wading further out into a lake of ink. But there’s no way out. Stepping to the side to try and climb out of the stream is no use. You are not the floating figures around you, you never will be and neither will Joon; you are simply grounded, falling deeper, yet becoming more assured of the goal you must now reach.

Before you even comprehend it, your right up against the hole, your vision shrouded in darkness and dripping ink, like a fountain from the devil himself. But you know on the other side that there’s the gallery room, and you know that a stone's throw from there, is your home, and your safety again.

“When i count to three, we’ll jump in.”

“Okay..” You breathe.

“Just help me through once you're safe and sound.” He grins, dimples kissing his cheeks.

“Of course I will, silly. We’re in this together.”

“Okay. One..”

“Two.”

“Three!”

The first thing you feel is damp wet sludge, then the tugging sensation of being pulled through a tumble dryer.

The next thing you know: you’re out the other side, and he..

..he’s gasping for air,

tugging onto your arm,

and gurgling.

And - oh god - you don’t think you’ve heard such a sound before, but it terrifies you and leaves bile pooling against your gums.

Against the arcs of rain spilling from the painting, his arm shakes further, fingers gripping so hard you’re afraid they’ll simply shrivel to bone. He’s screaming now, low and hollow and you’re teetering on the decision to just denounce this is a bad dream, pinch yourself and wake up. But you know this isn’t.

You feel you’ve had nightmares similar to this one before. Visions of losing him to a pool of ink, watching him fade into just an image. You’ve tried to imagine life without him, taking long walks and cold showers to prepare for the worst, but you had never wanted this.

“H-elp, PLEASE, he-”

“It’s okay!” You felt breathless “Joon, stay with me, please!”

What on earth would you do if you couldn’t get him out of here? Would the Joon at home you knew so well forever lose his spark? Would you get to try again the next day? Or would the love of your life simply fade away forever..

With that thought you tugged harder, putting all of your energy into the pull. Grounding one foot in front of the other, you leant back against the rope barrier of the exhibit and fastened your grip further up his arm. With excruciating strength, and the need to make sounds akin to an engine revving, you pulled further and further. Further and further, until you could see his shoulder, then his neck, then his head, the waist, the thighs, the knees, the ankles..

All of him.

In an instance, he was falling into your arms, your grip fervent and desperate on him, cradling his body as if he would melt away.

Little did you know, he would melt away if you weren’t fast enough.

“We need to be quick. I’m so so sorry. You need to hurry before i gradually fade; i can’t exist in this world normally as a painting, you need to get to him. Now”.

☁

Racing down empty streets, steering near desolate corners, your car drove with the solid ambition of getting to him.

The longer you rode, the harder you found it to look across to the passenger seat at him. Every single minute, he was fading away. First it was his shoes when you first fastened the seat belt, then his ankles, and now the evanesce was reaching toward his thighs. There was no point in looking a little further or breathing a little faster or thinking a little longer. It was your eyes, ahead, on the road. Just you and the world.

And soon it would be you and him.

Turning another corner, you felt the engine stutter and pool to a stop. With a long, steady breath, you pushed at the pedal again, urging it to move,

“C’mon just a little more -”

But to no avail.

Again you pushed and pushed, just like how you pulled and pulled earlier, but life could only give you so much, it would only give you so much.

A feeling of despair overcame you, throwing you instantly onto the bed of the steering wheel. You lay there silently for a while, face nested against the cold fabric, questioning it all.

Did you do enough? What would Joon think of you? Why were you so hopeless? Did you really think you could finish this on your own?

You had to finish this on your own.

...

....

......

*pit*

*pat*

*pit-pat*

You blinked, lips brushing the wheel in an attempt to shut your mouth and hold your breath.

*pit-pat*

*pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat -*

It was raining.

Looking up, flecks of water were falling from the sky. They were landing like confetti and surging through the air in the trillions. The ground, in seconds, had become a stone riverbed, and the car windows a submarine tanks.

You’d be damned if this rain wasn’t going to turn into the most magnificent storm you’d ever seen.

“C’mon Joon, we’re nearly there!”

With a thrust, you pulled yourself out of the car and up into the rain. Following your steps, he trailed behind you as you stepped out into the cold, exposed to an onslaught of flood.

Out in the open, and with one more step to complete, you took your hand in his and began to run.

If tears were rainy days, you think you’d have experienced a drought. But now, you were crying, crying like there was not enough rain in this world, like there couldn’t ever be enough.

Ushering a melting figure through the torrent of rain, you’d become desperate to reach home. Looking back, you saw the rain was having its effect on him. Every second now, he was simply being washed away.

You turned the final corner to your apartment, readying yourself to rush down a long street to reach the end of it and enter dry-land. To run back home with the risk of turning back and no longer seeing a figure following behind you.

But was it luck, or the final piece in this discombobulated puzzle, that Namjoon was standing right there, at the end of the street, waiting for you?

Now you were running even faster, your legs pacing ahead of the rest of you before you could even think.

Closer and closer and you could start to feel Joon’s grip in your hand fade away, only urging you to hold on stronger.

With watery, shut eyes, you made the final distance and collided with a strong chest, sending Joon forth into his physical counterpart.

Pulling apart from him suddenly, you watched to see his watercolour other-half melt into the crest of his heart. With no urgency, he was sucked in, and you stared in awe as Joon slowly stood straighter, grew brighter, felt happier.

It was a gasp of air that finally brought him back to you. You saw it before you truly felt it: lips on your own like soft, rubbery buds. He kissed you with tenderness, with concern, with desire. Kissing you further, the light poured into you too. You felt it in the way he held your waist, in the way he held your face, in the way he made sure the both of you were never ever ever displaced.

He sang against your lips,

“Please don’t ask any questions.”

“But do keep pouring forever.”

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firstjustgoin · 7 years

Text

An (About to be) Overheard Conversation

4. Start with a conversation. One you’ve overheard, or at least pretended you have (you’re always doing that). Start with a sentence that can never be taken back or a l’esprit de l’escalier moment or whatever.

By the time I leave work the rain is coming down hard –– one of those mid-August deluges that makes New York seem small and humble, at the mercy of water that might just wipe it off to sea. I don’t mind when it rains like this usually because the restaurant gets slow, only a few huddles of folks ordering another glass to wait out the rain, and it takes half the time to close as usual.

Juan pretends to look away and polish the glasses along the bar while I turn the sign to Closed 15 minutes early. It’s a game we play, he and I. He might be running the joint now, but I know I can push him because I remember when he was just a kid bar backing after class. He’s grown now with kids of his own but we’re both still here, closing up on rainy August nights while the lights off Canal bounce across puddles and women in high-heeled boots skate along, giggling and screaming.

I like New York in the rain, but I’m never prepared for it. It’s been weeks of the sky holding its breath, the clouds heavy with moisture but stealing themselves against release. This heat has gotta break eventually, I hear moms whisper to each other on street corners, their faces full of the same kind of desperation I imagine on moms in cities ravaged by war. In the city of Broadway and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it’s no surprise that we’ve got a penchant for the dramatic. Even the rain here wants to be immortalized in the neon signs above the Majestic.

After I say goodnight to Juan, I open the door with an extra force as if I’m pushing back a hurricane. In moments like these, I always wonder why I refuse to read weather reports. Daniel hated this about me, he always hated women who didn’t take care of themselves but then complained about the results. If I got Freudian on him, I’d try to make it about his mom, but he hated when I got philosophical too. Those were the days when I read Camus and Heidegger and quoted them in dark corners of the Brooklyn loft parties I never get invited to anymore.

Everything begins with consciousness and nothing is worth anything except through it. A truly New York philosophy. All of the struggle, everything Woody Allen romanticized –– the fifteen strange hands gripping the same sticky pole on the subway, the thick smoke of garbage that settled along every street during the summer, the fifteen dollar cocktails and twenty dollar hamburgers, the grime that lived between everyone’s toes no matter how much you isolated yourself on the fiftieth floor of a Central Park West co-op building –– this was the pain we had to work through to get real satisfaction from life. My friends who have long since abandoned the signal problems in the tunnels below the East River for sunnier, more temperate climates don’t ascribe to this philosophy anymore –– Why not just be happy? Couldn’t that be satisfying too?

All this to say, I find myself more often than not fast walking to the subway from the restaurant, as if I could outrun the pellets of water speeding down 1000 times a millisecond. So here I am, careening through the cobblestoned sidewalks, holding my apron above me like it can protect me from anything more than flour stains on my pants.

I don’t quote the Myth of Sisyphus too much anymore. After I dropped off the Master’s track and stayed working at Galli for eight years too long, thinking about why people don’t just kill themselves in the face of a cruel and unrelenting world hasn’t kept up the same appeal as it once did. None of it has really. The books and articles I was going to write, all of the shitty plans Daniel and I made to learn German and move abroad, bicycling around Brooklyn late at night in search of the perfect slice. I’m lactose intolerant now, like everyone who lives south of Greenpoint and north of Park Slope. I wonder what Sisyphus would think about higher consciousness if he was rolling his boulder towards a pizza parlor he couldn’t eat at.

It’s less than four blocks to the Canal Street station from the restaurant, and after almost a decade of taking those steps to the station, I don’t need any road markers to find my way there, even in a flash flood. It’s barely 11 and Mercer’s dead, which is eerie on a Friday but it makes me feel like I’m in a Murakami novel –– alone in a crowded city, a bubble of quiet amidst the clamor. I transitioned from existentialism smoothly into surrealist fiction for awhile, but I’d be lying if I said I’d read a book in the last 16 months. I keep them around me for show, of course, in case I get a visitor who asks me what I’ve been up to, I can just gesture to my dusty friends. The kinds of visitors I get these days don’t usually ask that many follow-up questions. It’s hard to pin down the irony of life as an adult in New York –– the same kinds of people who as kids teased me about being a book nerd grew up to be snobs who can’t wait to get their manicured nails on the latest Zadie Smith.

After I swipe myself through the turnstyle, I can feel the rumbling underbelly of the subway station as the J train spits its way away from the platform. It’s late enough that I’m certain another won’t be coming for at least fifteen minutes, so I prepare to settle in against a pole in this sauna. I’ve spent enough time leaning against this pole late into the night, I feel like I should get a plaque to commemorate its allegiance to me.

It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been living here, you’ve got to take the small things that you can feel ownership over, since most of this city feels like it could crumble through your fingers at any moment. When I first moved to New York in a fit of passion and wide-eyed idealism only possible in the first couple months after college graduation, I saw New York as a grand stepping stone. This was not a place you could get mired in. As soon as it no longer held any value for you, you could springboard out towards a million new points of light. Daniel used to say that he loved that about me –– how I mirrored the city’s frenetic energy with my own, desperate to see more, do more, be more than I had been the day before, how I wanted to be constantly reincarnated without having to die.

My world is much smaller than it was ten years ago and even five. My world is the 600 steps from my apartment to the subway and the 400 steps from the subway to the restaurant. It is the 10,000 steps I run twice a week going nowhere, overlooking a rare parking lot in Bushwick. The 500 steps from the gym to the grocery store where I walk a couple hundred steps in circles looking for the best price on whole grain bread and oranges and penne noodles. Even the worlds I live in while I’m sleeping are smaller than they used to be. I’ll be replaying the same conversation I had with the Italian family who are visiting New York only to eat at an Italian restaurant, helping them decide the best wine for the fish, except the children will be wearing matching light blue frilly frocks and pink bows tied around the middle instead of whatever sparkly I heart New York crap they actually wore the previous afternoon. I’ll wake up and remind myself to stop watching The Shining before bed, but at least it helped me decipher my dreamworld from reality.

I lean forward off the platform in search of a light. Sometimes I feel a great sense of adrenaline from this act –– shuffling the tips of my toes towards the past the cautionary yellow line, craning my neck over the edge so my head balances magically over the tracks a few feet below. It would be so easy to just fall, for a rushed stranger to bump my side or a gush of wind from a train on the adjacent track and then to become a member of a statistic displayed on every subway car.

In 2015, 476 People –– including A 32-year-old Woman Who Didn’t Really Mean To Fall, But Also Didn’t Really Try to Stop Herself From Falling –– Were Hit By Subway Cars.

I see the light growing from the cavern, coming into focus as it nears the station. I step back from the yellow line and wait like the good socialized New Yorker that I am for the train to come to a full stop before the crowding the door to scan for open seats. The train car that pulls up in front of me is nearly empty, which usually is the sign of a broken air conditioning system or the smell of death, but I step in anyways. Cold air and a neutral subway scent greet me. There’s only one other person in the car, sitting a couple sections away. As the subway doors close and I settle into my plastic bench, I hear a quiet muttering that first sounds like gibberish but I begin to pull out full sentences.

“To love, to life, to your happily ever after…”

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